THE BABY SHOW
“Now, Billy Whiskers, this is much like your experience in the early
summer at the Circus, and you know full well what dire consequences
followed then,” scolded the goat, for one of Billy’s favorite pastimes
was to talk to himself as though he were two goats, Billy the good
reproving Billy the mischief-maker; Billy the first admonishing Billy
the second for his escapades and bewailing his abnormal capacity for
evil doing.
“It is high time that you decide to keep out of harm’s way,” he
continued with a wag of the head, “for if you don’t, someone with a
blue coat and a shiny piece of metal on his breast will catch you and
then there’ll be the end of all fun and the beginning of a most dreary
time in captivity.”
“Well, well,” impatiently agreed the fun-loving goat, “you’re in the
right, as always, wise William, and we’ll reform--for to-day. We’ll see
all there is to be seen at this Fair in a becoming manner, though I
fear me it will be a trifle dull and prosy--like spice cake minus the
spice.”
All this time he had been ambling slowly along, following the general
trend of the crowd down a street lined both sides with booths and
buildings which flaunted the gayest of bunting and flags, and now he
drew up with a start as he found himself at the end and facing an open
door, for he was wary of buildings in view of his recent experience in
the needlework department.
Here before him was a great sea of faces. Long rows of chairs and in
every one of them a woman with a baby! Babies and babies and babies
were there. Some were fat and rosy, well content to sit quietly on
their proud mothers’ laps, others were lean and agile, and forever on
the move, but all were beruffled and belaced in billowing garments of
purest white.
“Ah!” ruminated Billy, “this must be the Baby Show. I heard Mrs. Treat
talking about it the other day. I’ll see what sort of specimens are
carrying off the palm these days,” and in he sauntered.
“Now I’m sure that if my Dick was a baby again, he’d have first place.
Even now he is the roundest, rosiest, merriest little youngster I’ve
ever met--and goodness knows, I’m rather an experienced judge. Didn’t
I see thousands and _thousands_ of boys and girls all last summer? If
ever you wish to see all sorts and kinds, the Circus is the place for
you. Why, I remember one day--but there, to the business in hand,” and
he commenced to pace slowly down one aisle.
“Isn’t she the dearest thing?” ejaculated one woman immediately in
front of Billy, pausing so suddenly to fondle a baby all done up in
blue ribbons and lace that Billy, now on his good behavior, had much
ado to save her from an uncomfortable and unpleasant encounter with his
horns. With skilful maneuvering, however, he essayed to pass by, but,
his curiosity aroused, he peered around to discover the cause of her
admiring words.
By this time the baby was undergoing a series of pattings and huggings
at the hands of the visitor, while the delighted mother hovered over
the two.
“Doesn’t she look bright? But then, she ought to be. Now my Jamie, he’s
only five, and he’s the smartest boy,” and motherly pride beamed as she
launched into the story.
“Jamie is the cutest chap, and can wind his father right round
his little finger and lead him where he pleases. Last winter when
Washington’s birthday came, I thought he was old enough to hear about
the Father of his country, so I told him all about the boy George. The
next morning I saw him climb up on his father’s lap and, opening his
big blue eyes in that cunning way all his own, he asked:
“‘Papa, did George Washington really and truly cut down that
cherry-tree?’”
“‘Yes, my son, so they say.’”
“‘And didn’t his papa whip him for being so dreadfully naughty?’ with a
shake of the head to express his wonder.”
“‘No. You see, Jamie, he was proud to have a son who was brave enough
to tell the truth even though he thought a whipping would follow owning
up.’”
“‘Well, papa, would you whip me if I cut down a tree?’ came next from
our boy.”
“‘I think not, Jamie. Yes, I’m sure I would not whip you. I would be
just every bit as proud of you for telling the honest truth as George
Washington’s father was of his boy.’”
“‘Say, father,’ and Jamie snuggled up closer to his father, ‘I
never told you, but one day last summer I went over to Rob’s house
and--and--I ate a whole bushel, almost, of mulberries!’ came the
hesitating confession.” And the mother glanced around quickly to note
the effect of the story on her audience.
“He is a little diplomat, that I see from your story,” commented one of
the group of ladies who had gathered about.
“Boys are dears,” offered a little old lady, dressed in quiet gray that
matched the silver of her waving hair and brought out the wonderful
blue of her beautiful eyes, still alight with youthful fire. “Of course
I never had a son, nor a daughter either, for that matter, but years
ago I lived next to a little girl named Alice, and then I decided that
girls were really nicer than boys.
“Alice was the brightest child, and it was my delight that she came to
my home for a daily call.
“I always kept a jar of cookies in the kitchen cupboard, just in
easy reach for her, for Alice was passionately fond of cookies, and
especially if they boasted a raisin in the center. She always visited
that cupboard as soon as she came in, and always found the jar was
waiting for her with its store.
“But one day her mother told me the habit must not be allowed to grow,
and so I promised faithfully to do my part.
“It was not long until Alice, her curls bobbing and her eyes dancing
with fun, came running in to see me. Straight to that cupboard door she
went, and opening it, was about to reach for the sweet cake when she
discovered the jar empty--empty for the first time in weeks and months!
“Looking at me out of the corner of her eye, she tapped on the jar and
inquired:
“‘Any tookies at home to-day?’”
“And you?” asked one of the bystanders, eager for the rest of the
incident.
“Well, I--I didn’t keep my promise to help break her of the habit that
day.”
“That is a good one,” seconded another woman eagerly, “and brings to my
mind a story of my boys, now grown men. In those days we lived on the
farm, and my sons were just old enough to venture out into the fields
alone. You know what a lark it is for boys to hunt? Well, my boys
developed the instinct early. One day in spring George saw a squirrel
flirt its saucy tail over in the woods, and off they were after it.
[Illustration]
“I had not noticed their absence until I saw Charles, a toddler of
four, come racing down the road and turn into the dooryard.
“‘George has broked his neck! Mama, mama, George has broked his neck,
he has!’ he screamed.
“‘Tell me how,’ I demanded, my heart thumping wildly.
“‘He fell off a tree. He’s broked his neck. Come quick,’ the child gave
answer.
“I needed no second bidding, but frantically started for the wood lot.
Charles ran along by my side, and when we came to the fence I lifted
him over first, and only then thought to ask:
“Charles, how do you know his neck is broken?
“‘Well,’ he explained, ‘you see, he climbed the tree after the
squirrel, and he went out too far, and the old rotten limb it just
snapped and George fell and he is hurted, and he said to run and tell
you to come quick. I started and then he called and said:
“‘Charles, better say my neck is broked right off. I guess then she’ll
hurry, sure!’”
“The little rascal!” laughed one of the bystanders who had listened to
the tale. “I don’t believe you hurried so much after that enlightening
speech, did you?”
“Well, hardly. You see,” beaming, “I wasn’t so sure that his neck was
broken after that!”
“Hump!” thought Billy, disgust written on his face. “These mothers
are the queerest things. They tell stories by the full hour of their
children as if they had the most wonderful boy or girl in the whole
world. And, after all, they prove to be just about the average--nothing
so exceedingly bright about any of those stories that I can see,” and
off he strolled, for he meant to make his way out of the building
without further delay.
He would likely have carried out this determination, but before he had
proceeded half way to the door, all his sympathies were aroused by one
of the exhibited babies. For whatever other faults Billy possessed, a
hard heart was not one of them, and any sign of suffering brought quick
sympathy from him.
“Deary, deary me! That child must have the whooping cough! What a
crying shame to bring it here. It is black in the face already, and
there sits its mother doing absolutely nothing for its relief. I’m sure
she doesn’t know what ails the poor baby!”
[Illustration]
Now it happened that the Treat trio had had a long siege of the disease
the winter before, and Billy knew very well what to do when a paroxysm
of coughing wracked the sufferer. Had he not seen Mrs. Treat, who was
usually so gentle a mother, vigorously pound her offspring on their
backs? And hadn’t the boys come out as hearty as ever?
So Billy resolved to take the same measures in the present case, and
thereupon he backed away, gained a start, and gathering momentum with
every forward step, he hurled himself pell-mell against the child.
Off it went, rolling and tumbling from its mother’s lap to the floor,
emitting shrill screams, though they were more from fright than from
injury.
“There! It’s recovered its breath, at any rate, and that is the main
thing,” was Billy’s self-congratulatory thought, but alack and alas
for the philanthropically inclined goat, punishment swift and sure
followed.
Cries of alarm, a general stampede among the onlookers, and an umbrella
wielded by a hearty farmer hastened Billy’s ignominious flight from the
scene.
“Oh, ma li’l darlin’, ma honey chile!” crooned the mother over her
wailing, rescued daughter, rocking it back and forth to comfort and
quiet it, for Billy had attacked a negro baby!